this juncture, can barely attempt: America can approach Germany with the ease of one at peace in the midst of strife, and can with humane forethought and certainty secure such distribution of food supplies to the Belgian civil population as may save them from the sufferings which now confront them every day. This is what America can do and with all our hearts and souls we pray that it may be quickly done! _We_, in Great Britain, are never weary of helping, to the best of our ability, those exiles who have lost their homes and means of livelihood--we strive to make their hard lot less bitter--and to one and all we accord a welcome as to those of our own blood and kindred. But we are at war, and though our Government is using all the means available to prevent the threatening disaster of millions of non-combatants, women, children, and the aged, being sacrificed to what is called “military necessity,” such means are not enough, being perforce obstructed by the difficulties of the situation. The grim idol of Militarism must have its burnt offerings--that pitiless god of Battle so aptly and magnificently described in Lord Byron’s _Childe Harold_:-- “Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deep’ning in the sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon; Restless, it rolls, now fix’d, and now anon Plashing afar--and at his iron feet Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done; * * * * * All join the chase, but few the triumph share, The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array!”